Fate Strafe
by DeZia of Abiquiu
Summary: For two years, Jack Spicer has been missing without a trace, and when he at last returns, he's stronger than before and haunted by a failed project. A rift splits among the Xiaolin and a new foe emerges from the depths of dark technology. slight AU
1. Prologue: Clockmaker

**Fate Strafe**

_Prologue: Clockmaker_

Two years. Jack Spicer had been missing, without a single trace, for _two years_.

Twenty four months of training, twenty four months of gaining Shen Gong Wu and no sight of the pale antagonist, twenty four months of fighting evil in which the laughing and jeering of the young man was absent.

_Regretfully_ absent, Clay had to admit. What were the monks without a peer villain? A rival? Even though he had been oh so very annoying, a failure, and a no-good cheating anarchist of the worst kind, there were some things that the Dragon of Earth didn't miss that the optimist in him just had to find. No matter the ridicule, no matter the failures, betrayals, complications, no matter the thousands of times Heylin and Xiaolin alike had told him he'd never make it, Jack would always bounce back and return. Not only that, but he would return with the same grin and the same ideals and the same ego, seemingly unscathed and undamaged. The Kung Fu Cowboy just had to give Jack props for that; he knew that a lot of people would have just given up by now.

Is that what Jack had done? Was that why he was gone? That was the trouble. Two years and neither hair nor hide of the self-proclaimed prodigy had shown up, and that was incredibly notable, considering how brightly colored and contrasted the boy was. That plus the fact that he was obnoxiously loud, and he would be impossible to miss. The ego on that boy was impressive too… Jack Spicer wouldn't go down without a fight (no matter how short or futile it was or if he gave up in the middle) or at the very least a big, flashy show.

That was something that Clay sincerely missed. No matter how much he cursed the varmint, the kid was still the same age as they were, and rivalry and competition made things fun. And if what he had found about Dashi was true so far, Clay knew that the Grand Master would be rolling in his grave if there was little fun left in his world-saving business anymore.

So what had happened to their one-time rival? Where does one go when they disappear to obscurity? Clay was determined to dig whatever he could up on the subject, no matter how the others protested…

_It just wasn't right to have the varmint missing for so long_.

* * *

Metal on metal makes a great grind, a singing noise that echoes among the buildings and skyscrapers and parked cars. The air in the city hummed with rubber-on-concrete songs and metal-on-metal songs and motor-echoes and car horns and even the song of the voices and arguing of people. With or without a tune, it was a song, a kind of deep urban poetry that vibrated through the air, almost tangible with its summertime smoggy pinkish haze. 

The sun was setting. And as it set neon leaked into the humming air and crept forth to awaken those who roamed the dark paths of the city at night. Up a skyscraper, high, deep in a luxurious loft-apartment, one of the night's children was stirring slowly from his day of sleep…

SKREET SKREET SKREET SKREET. The disconcerting sound of an alarm clock went off and was quickly followed by an equally loud clattering, banging and apparent smashing that cut off the grating shrill of the alarm. So much for easing out of sleep. Towering above the ruined digital clock a young man protested at nothing in general, yelling at the clock for interrupting his rest and waving the wrench he had used to murder it around threateningly. Red eyes glinted in the lights of so many electric fixtures; lava-lamps, plasma globes and other gaudy retro-decorative accessories, and a slow, snakebite-pierced grin crept across his face.

Laughing, he wiped a few strands of red hair out of his face. This strange laughter, seemingly unprovoked but hardly mirthless, continued for quite a while until the man was doubled over on the floor.

Two years. Two years after secretly moving with his parents to protect their business, two years after he was hidden away, two years after he had joined a less-than-savory group of punk inventors.

Two years, six hundred and seventy days since Jack Spicer had dropped off the Heylin map.

Six hundred and seventy days of some of the hardest, and most painful events of his life. No, Jack was never one to angst about things, and this was hardly angsting. This pain had been physical, but never more worth it. The mosh pits, skating accidents, faction brawls and inevitable accidents that had come with hanging out with a group of half-brilliant miscreants in the back-streets of the city Jack could now proudly call his own had changed him.

Dim, flickering artificial light and the dusk-mixed neon of the city below his enormous loft windows seemed to catch in his pail, bruise-speckled skin and was held prisoner, his hair's unnatural red starting to show up under the black light. His frame, shaking with the last of the laughing fit, straightened out as he stood before the large, triangular windows that overlooked _his_ kingdom. Headlights, taillights, billboards, the lights of a thousand business cubicles, fluorescent advertisements with loud colors and even louder words all came on and reflected from the darkening clouds in the sky. None but a few of the bravest stars dared show their faces over the City, and a thin, waning moon hung over a radio tower.

Not just any Radio Tower. Anarchy Tower, home to the Arsonistas. Jack's chosen crew of generally bad-assed punks, inventors, gadget-makers, fighters, thieves… a syndicate of young criminals living in the shadow of freedom.

Jack scratched at a blood-dappled bandage wrapped around the upper part of his left arm. His mom would have complained about him being in such terrible condition… If he had given her a chance to see himself in this state, she _would have_. But he just didn't see that happening. Not anymore. He had been a late bloomer as it was, and when at last he had grown up, he saw it was a bit late to fix the damage his sheltered childhood had done him.

He was always afraid because no one bothered to tell him ABOUT what he was afraid of. That pain was temporary. No one had ever told him what the REAL world was like. So, in the midst of his "hiding" from family enemies, he began to sneak out. He began to slowly show himself what his mother had tried to hide him from.

The rest of the past few years was a blur, contrasted by the sharp reminders, scars, shimmering against his duller undamaged white skin. Mosh pits, brawls, energy drinks, running wild, becoming something that he had always he had been told he couldn't.

He left the window with a subtle sass to his walk, he turned his back on that portal to the outside world in much the same motions as a cat turning its back on the owner that had just been petting it kindly. As if both he and the window knew…. He'd be back.

Picking up a pad of paper and one of his mechanical pencils. He had built the simple machine himself to ward off the creeping ennui that seemed to threaten him daily, or at least on the days that he had no choice but to stay at home and play the innocent, well-bahaved son. Scribbling a quick note, and an appology, Jack threw it on his bed nd began to collect some of his things that he had not yet packed... as in, his clothes and a few beloved personal items. And snacks. There's no way he would make it without those.

Stepping into his closet, a glint of light caught his eye, and his red pupil dialated in abject terror before he kicked into the darkness, unplugging some wires and in the proscess tripping over, falling onto whatever he had attacked.

The body of a young man, white-haired and covered in visible electric diodes and wires, the fake flesh-softness of nano-machine cells beneath Jack only added to his sudden frenzy of almost comical terror. The crimson glow came from a metal-plate, apparently an eye...

Screaming, Jack unplugged a few mored wired and kicked the machine to rolling deeper into the closet. What had scared him so bad was not the realistic quality he had been able to give to this project's body, but the fact that it had not been plugged in before, and it was now warm from electricity and yet the mere touch of the false skin made Jack cringe. He threw clothes over it, and breathing heavily stared for a few moments before slamming the closet door and walking briskly, duffel-bag slung over his shoulder, to the hangar where he kept his Speeder Jet.

_Time to get back in the game_...


	2. O N E: Gearlocked

**Fate Strafe**  
_O N E_: _Gearlocked_

Dust. There was too much damned DUST. Jack coughed and made a raucous protest as his "dramatic re-entry" to the abandoned Spicer Mansion (he kicked the locked door in, he had ALWAYS wanted to do that) kicked up a huge cloud of previously undisturbed grime right in his face. Teary-eyed and growling and most definitely ticked off, Jack put on his Arsonista mask—a gasmask mimicking the emblem on his helibot—and set off his helibot's rotor blades to send the rest of the dust ceiling-high. Shafts of sunlight caught the dust and turned to golden spears through the now dark and empty manse, a place once slightly more lively, once eternally clean, once the home of a whining boy who refused to grow up.

Jack glared at the shimmering swords of afternoon sun as if they had invaded his turf. They had, hadn't they? After so long being nocturnal, and owing to his genetics, Jack was sensitive to pinpoint light, and his red eyes dilated in remonstration.

_If light could glint off of the empty space of a soul, his eyes would have been glowing._

Gold wasn't his color anyway. He preferred the soft red-and-green light of digital numbers, and even though he often did welding he had no great love of it. On the occasions he had been accidentally arc-flashed he had been laid abed and blind for at least a day. That and he burned easily. Since then, Jackbots did most of his welding work for him. His snakebites pulled down in a scowl at the memory of that pain, and yet is was a comforting, everyday pain. Not a brawl or a burn or a gunshot wound.

He thought for a moment and then lipped his goggles over his eyes, lessening the harsh light and turning everything electric yellow.

Jack Spicer was a known hypocrite.

He stalked through the halls and wondered how two years of dust alone could have made his erstwhile home this grungy. He deliberately avoided his dining room for a subconscious, steely chill that he felt in the back of his brain, gnawing at him like a doubt. His walk was nearly gliding-smooth, through the halls, the sun-spears flashed off of his white skin in bursts as he passed them by. The warmth was both welcome and loathed… Jack was a cold-natured person and liked the weather to match. The Summer's haze here had no touch of neon, no City-Blood, and so was of no interest to him.

Jack Spicer preferred the air-conditioned solace of his basement lair. Cooled climate laced with the sounds of machinery and music muffled by the concrete was one of his paradise-dreams.

And he was almost there.

Dust and sneezing aside, the genius was glad to be home.

_There was always a hitch in the homecoming. Murphy's Law followed the pale young man like a plague._

* * *

Clay tipped his hat at the Temple behind him. He wasn't often one to break rules, but this was one of those times he just had to, it was an unquestionable and doubtless pull that brought him to wear his soft, silent Wudai robes in place of his usual garb, it made it that much easier to sneak out. The others were against his plan from the start, in fact, they were loudly against it.

"If he's gone, he's gone. Good fucking _riddance_." That's what Raimundo had said, but there was a stinging acid spray in the wind of his words. Something hidden. Leave it to the earthworm to sense it and figure it out.

So, with his will and purpose cemented, he straightened his robes one last time and trekked towards the Spicer Estate.

_An anti-hero's as much a hero as anyone else, even if they do get in your way._

* * *

_Thunk. Thunk. Thunk_. Heavy black boots stepped down the rickety metal stairs into the basement. He had never remembered the staircase being in such bad repair… two years should not have left things in such a bad state. His gloved hand drew bare-fingered across a wall. His middle digit was shielded by silvery finger-armour that made a scraping sound, heard above the hum of abandoned machinery. The cement wall was covered in scrawlings of anarchy and world domination and the pure, simple ego of the child of fourteen that had once made his playground within the concrete walls of the basement. Jack scoffed at his own foolishness. But he couldn't help but smile at its childishness as well. A fond memory.

Jack Spicer had never suffered such a pain as _doubt_ or _depression_.

His hand scudded across the rough gray surface to a spray-painted symbol, a simple sky-blue star. Red eyes wild, he yelped and drew back, looking at the thing as if it had bitten him. Beside the star, a gear was glued to the wall by way of a crude hot glue gun. To a genius, such simple tools were monkey fodder… ignoring the fact that Jack loved whacking scrap metal at random with his wrench and eating mass amounts of banana pudding.

Even after two years of trials, _that_ much had hardly changed.

The gear still scared him. He tore it from the wall and threw it across the room, only to trot back and collect it again, slipping it silently into an oversized denim pocket. He made note to avoid resting his hand in that very pocket, because the mere touch of the slightly rusted metal sent chills through him.

_Two times he had failed. He should never have screwed with nanotechnology._

* * *

The front door was a fine specimen, carved wood, depicting reliefs of traders and New-World explorers across its almost rose-colored surface.

Anyone else might have kicked down the door regardless, but Clay Bailey took one look at the door and marched around the premises to find another way in. He wouldn't crush a work of art, now that was hardly the right thing to do. He had learned a few tricks in the past couple of years and finding the flagstone that stood out against the brick of the house, he smiled. Placing his hand splay-fingered on one of the largest stones, he whispered in Chinese and the rocks began to shift, re-arranging themselves to open a doorway into Spicer mansion.

As soon as Clay stepped inside, a powerful arm slammed into the stone next to him, smashing the stone to splinters, forcing him to shield his unprotected eyes. Soot poured out of the chimney and scattered across the house, covering all with a dark murk, through which could only be seen two red lights.

_The creator will do as he will do, but eventually all creations get out of hand._

* * *

The basement was luckily dustless. Jack smiled in approval of this and then thought about heading upstairs again to check things out. He briefly revisited his first question: why was there so much dust? Something was up. Tromping up the noisy, rickety stairs, he was stopped by a sound, a scraping from back in his lab. His blood-red pupils dilated, giving them their wild empty look, and for a brief moment cowering in fear was not his reaction.

His reaction, his reflex was finally changed. He pulled a gun out of his pocket and _fired_.

Only barely missing the blue-robed cowboy coming out of his TV room.

"WHAT IN TARNATIONS? Spicer, ya' varmint, we've been lookin' all over for ya'! And th' fist thing ya' do is SHOOT at me?"

Jack chuckled and dropped the gun sheepishly, shrugging and offering a nervous snakebitten grin rather than a real apology. "My bad."

* * *

As the soot cleared, the red lights lunged at Bailey, who ducked and rolled, tripping the incredibly tall figure. By the vibrations in the ground and the moment his opponent had touched him before toppling over, Clay could tell that he was far heavier than he should have been, even for his incredible height.

If it was a he.

Clay was already up long before the stunned opponent could get footing, calling a piece of shattered Flagstone to his grasp to block a blade-hand that swept swordlike at him. His eyes stinging from soot, he knew fighting would be hard. But not for the enemy.

The blade-hand rang like metal against the flagstone before turning back into a hand to crush the rock in its pale, white grasp.

Clay found himself staring down what LOOKED like an old enemy, but so very altered…

"_Jack?_"

* * *

The one-time antagonist had gone from nervous apology to glaring. "What the HELL are you doing in my house?" He growled, reaching to his belt for a taser. Since his time among the wolf pack of Arsonistas, he trusted no one. Not even a goody-two-shoes Xiaolin Monk. _Especially_ not a goody-two-shoes cowpoke.

"I came here lookin' for clues as to where ya'll got off to! Ya' jus' disappeared without a warnin!" Clay offered, pulling down his Wudai mask to reveal his face and putting up his hands to demonstrate that he was unarmed, in hopes of building what was obviously not there. Trust.

"As if you GIVE a care. I bet you're the one who dirtied up my house, even, you hick. Why the HELL do you 'good guys' insist on torturing me with your idiocy?" He flailed his arms about, the denim of his overcoat flapping on his skinny frame.

Clay sighed and stood tall, watching the outburst and rant that followed with a raised eyebrow and an amused chuckle. He was still Jack for sure, even if he had changed. The piercings honestly weren't a surprise for Clay, he had seen it coming a mile off. What surprised him was the occasional fathomless echo of certain words, and the fact that Spicer's sanity seemed to be running on fumes. "Well, I reckon I did dirty up your house, if ya' pardon me, but I had help in doin' it…"

* * *

_Cold. Red. A single light lit in the darkness of the loft finally lit up, and when it did, it was alone._

* * *

:A/N:  
_Heyza. I hope you guys are enjoying this story so far. I'm having a lot of fun constructing this story, it's the first suspense piece I've ever written. Meheh... cliffhangers are great. Erm... that's bound to get me shot. Anyhow, a little bit about the setting of this story. It takes place pst season three, but I did away with the whole Shoku concept because I hated it. The monks will always rise as a team in my fanfictions. I'll explain more as questions are asked and plotline is revealed..._


	3. T W O: Butterfly Knife

**Fate Strafe  
**_T W O: Butterfly Knife_

_At last, when he was able to raise a dome of manipulated marble around himself for protection to wipe the soot from his eyes, Clay realized who his attacker was. He drew back, escaping as swiftly as he could from a marble-crushing blow by way of warping the marble beneath him. A wave rose up and pulled him back from falling shards of stone and he could see his enemy clearly, framed by the eggshell his defenses had left behind. Though the man appeared to be Jack he was far taller and better built than Clay thought was ever possible for Jack... his frame wouldn't have changed that much. Most striking were the eyes, brimming with fury that spilled out in the form of crimson electric light from the red irises framed against cold jet screen rather than the usual whites of a human eye._

_Clay stood ready to fight, getting in the best possible stance for quick movement and reaction, waiting for the alternate Jack to make his move._

_"What, don't remember me cowboy?" He snarled, in a voice that was Jacks, only deeper. "If it wasn't for little chrome dome, I would've been top dog in this whole fight!"_

_"WHAT? You mean to tell me yer that doggone robot Jack that--"_

_An extending arm crashed and splintered the marble that had been Bailey's standing-point only seconds before_.

"Don't you EVER_ call me a robot and don't you _EVER_ call me Jack! I'm through with that." The laser-like light like a fountain of knives in Clay's already soot-pained eyes. "I'll get my own name, _Android Jax_!"_

_His other deadly arm extended and caught Clay in the side before smashing through the wooden chairs behind him. The earth Dragon decided it was time to play it smart and focused a large amount of his energy, concentrating until he _sunk_ (much to Jax's dismay) into the marble floor and into the basement below..._

"... and I will swear on my life and honor that's what happened. I passed out when I hit the floor and that's why I ain't outta' yer house yet."

Jack's eyes were wide, and the gear seemed to burn a hole in his pocket but he wouldn't dare touch it again. This was bad.

Incredibly bad.

His eyes echoed the haphazard flurry of thoughts in his mind before going blank. He turned to Clay, and, noticing the small amount of blood on the cowboy's side, Spicer began to laugh.

Hollow. Empty. Laugh.

There would have been mirth but fear tore at his gut, fear drove the laugh, and he fell to his knees once again, laughing until it hurt. Clay was taken aback, and took a step to give the young man his space. It only stopped when Jack had run out of breath to laugh with. His chest heaving he looked up at Clay, his eyes shadowed by makeup and lost sleep, the tang of emptiness showing for just a second.

"We're growing up. It's not a game anymore." He said quietly, his bitter chuckle tainting the words as he stood. "Pretty soon anything they did to protect us will be useless."

"I know." That was all Clay said. He seemed to be silent and still, but his mind and senses were ever moving... that robot was still unaccounted for.

Jack's gaze blurred for a moment, remembering the grazing wound of a gunfight that had broken out in the skate-park almost a year ago, and then snapped to sharp focus on Clay. "Better deal with that. Don't want anymore blood on my floor." He smirked and waved Clay off, he knew that the Earth Dragon would honor that at least.

But he stopped in his tracks when Clay spoke again.

"Regardless, it—"

"What do you WANT?" He flailed and spun around to face Clay, obviously annoyed, his jacket flapped noisily around him, his face flushed ever so slightly with anger and his eyes blazing with childlike malice. The fact he had a slight pout to his pierced lips was a sheer step backwards from what Spicer had apparently become.

Now it was Clay's turn to laugh.

"Ah me, but it's good to have ya' back, Spicer." He reached up to tip his hat but when he remembered it wasn't there he settled with waving, smiling, and walking straight through the concrete of the basement wall, arising a sound from Jack that was somewhere between a furious squawk and a surprised squeak.

"Y... YEAH AND STAY OUT!" He screamed, throwing a discarded Jackbot shell at the place where Clay had melded with the particles of cement that were connected to his element. It was a futile gesture, but it made a lot of noise, and Jack liked that at the very least.

"Okay, venting, venting is good." He assured himself, smoothing back his bright hair and taking a deep breath.

The truth was, he was afraid of the silence.

His eyes darted around before he took off for the place that used to be his room and slammed his hand into the on button of his stereo. His fear pacified for the time being, he snapped around and an eerie grin crossed his face.

_"Time to get back to work..."_

* * *

Arriving back at the temple, as silent as he left, Clay was hardly missed. He snuck back to his room and bandaged up the small wound that Jax had left him before anyone had any idea of what was going on. 

Well, almost anyone.

"So, sneaking out again, eh cowboy?" Raimundo hung upside-down from the cubicle wall that separated his dorm from Clay's own.

"WHAT IN-- Raimundo don't you sneak up on me like that!" He put down the chest he had almost thrown at Raimundo and looked up at the acrobatic Brasilian.

The young man raised an eyebrow. "YOU keep on sneaking out like this _without me_ and you're telling me not to be a ninja? PSH, alright, fine by me." He flipped over and landed on the floor in front of his friend, cocking his head and offering up his best "what did you do this time?" grin.

Clay just looked down, grinning right back, and didn't say anything.

The grin was wiped of his face when the Wind Dragon spoke his next piece. "So you got a girlfriend you keep going out to see?"

"WH... WHAT? Rai, ya' little coyote, I ain't got no one and you know it!" He stepped back a bit, blushing at the suggestion and growling at Rai.

"Hey man, you're the one sneaking out and you had this huge grin on your face like 'WOW BEST THING EVER', I'm thinking that you've got some sort of secret." He jabbed his finger into Clay's barrel chest, smug smirk wiped across his face and his words given hue by underlying laughter.

Clay put one huge hand on the brunette's head and picked him up to eye-level, raising an eyebrow. "I ain't got no girl. And you know it."

"Point taken, now _putmedownplease_."

Clay set Raimundo down and smiled, ruffling his hair with a calloused hand. "I will tell you what though. Spicer is back."

Raimundo nearly fell over. "SAY WHAT? Nu-uh, no way. I thought that little prick was gone for good!" His demeanor quickly changed from playful to defensive, from jazz to hard rock in no time flat."And you went LOOKING for him?" He growled.

"Whoa, whoa, easy pardner!" Clay waved a hand in hoped to calm the fuming Monk down. "I went looking for clues, I had no idea he was gonna' show up again. But he is back. We've also gotta' be on the lookout, Robo!Jack is back, and he ain't too keen on anyone." He pulled his robes aside to show the clean bandages.

"Oh, so that's why you were kind of limping in when I saw you..." Raimundo glared. "Don't you ever go off alone again, alright? No solo butt-kicking, I want my share too. Who else is gonna' look out for you?" he fondly punched Clay in the arm. "And don't say Omi either, he's too busy looking out for a chance to peek up Kimiko's skirt."

"_Hey hey hey_, you be nice now!" Clay couldn't help but laugh, as polite as he was he had to admit that was probably true.

"Well if he is back, I'mma kick his sorry ass first chance I get." Rai's voice was darker again, and Clay stepped back.

"I dunno, Rai, we don't really need to. I have a hunch he don't care so much about the Wu anymore."

"Your hunches have been wrong. Besides, I need to get him back for making you sneak out without bringing me!" A trickster's gleam crossed Raimundo's olive eyes in the dim light and he moved to run out. "Should we tell Fung?"

"Means I gotta' own up to sneakin' around, but I don't see why not." Duty. It was duty.

He followed Raimundo out to the courtyard, to find Fung and alert everyone that Jack Spicer and his robot counterpart were back.

He made sure to stress the fact that this time, there would be a very real danger.

* * *

Looking out from behind a hiding place, a monk who wore not only robes but a hood as well listened to Clay's conversation with Raimundo, and with Fung. His back was bent and all who passed him showed the utmost respect... he was an elder in nearly every sense of the word. "Oh, well this is trouble... That spell should be working..." His voice was youthful, and the yellow-tinted hand that gripped the cane was only to the inexperienced eye the hand of an elderly person. Some sort of illusion hovered around his being, but he was not ready to reveal himself. Not yet. 

They weren't ready.

Technically they weren't ready for what was about to happen, either. But since when is anyone ever ready for disaster?

"I'd better take extra care watching over them, you too." He said as Fung passed him after speaking with Clay and the others.

Fung bowed. "As you wish, Grand Master. I will see they use all they have learned to remain safe."

"Good, good. Now how does tea sound?" The old man chuckled and, shuffling along, lead Fung off to the kitchens.

* * *

The light took some time wandering around in the darkness, tripping more than once over piles of clothes and half-finished machinery. It needed energy besides electricity, that much it knew. So the first thing it found it shoved in it's mouth.

A cellphone, with a terribly scratched covering... anarchy symbols and the name of its owner...

"_Jack Spicer... hehehe... Dad...? That sounds about right..._" 


	4. T H R E E:Mechanics of a Rivalry

_A/N: Hey guys! So, a few things. I fixed a problem in the last chapter, a big CHUNK involving Jax got cut out. And for reference this chapter, the Palisades are a BEAUTIFUL national park in New Mexico, to which I will post links of photos in my profile. Thanks you guys for the reviews and support!_

_Also: Brownie points to people who guess the movie/radio/TV refs at the end of the chapter.  
/DeZia_

**Fate Strafe**  
_T H R E E: Mechanics of a Rivalry_

Desert. Morning. Mountain breeze. A slight mid-level fog that neither swamped to the ground nor allowed the tops of the mountains to be seen. It was unevenly spaced, however, and bright white lasers of early morning sunshine pierced the The landscape was dappled in the migrating patches of light, ghosting across trees and hills like sea-skimming manta-rays, hugging every detail of the terrain. There was no sound but the occasional car driving on the highway, and the hoarse whisper of evergreen needles and currentbush and scrub-oak leaves and wind whistling and moaning through the crags of rock that made up the brilliant facade of the landmark known as the Palisades.

The brilliant, rough surfaces of the brown-pink, lichen-stained sandstone bluffs were like the face of some natural castle, on whose turrets were perched many Knights; birds of prey, lizards. If one was lucky they might see a coyote, bear or cougar, the true kings and queens of this desert land high atop the uneven cubed pinnacles of rock.

Like the arrows of angels, the meandering white lights from the sky shifted to glint off of something bright red. It glowed faintly, and a beetle scuttled out of the way, realizing that it's path was suddenly obstructed by something that was most definitely not there before. A ruby pendant carved like a six-celled honeycomb glinted, deflecting the arrows in blinding little spots. This signaled its location.

The Shen Gong Wu known as Hives' Wrath had revealed itself. And with that disclosure of its existence two groups of adversaries vying for it's power were headed straight for the Palisades.

Eyes to match the ruby honeycomb sought from high above the clouds. It was not by way of their own power did they finally find the treasure, but with the aid of one of the lenses of his goggles (worn over one eye, slantways across his head) and one eye free from the scope to keep a peripheral view out for his nemeses. Even if his eyesight was bad due to his albinism, he could still detect motion incredibly well. It was a part of the paranoia.

Part of those two years.

Part of the Anarchy that drove him mad and set him free.

No one could just sneak up on him anymore. They had to _earn_ it.

He wore earphones to deal with the atmospheric pressure, special machines in his suit that automatically acclimated him to the altitude of the Rocky Mountains. It helped that they were blaring some of his favorite music, as well.

It made him feel more powerful, more powerful than the title of "Heylin" had ever made him feel. It made him want to go as fast as he could. It made him go as fast as he could.

Spinning, twisting, flipping mid-air. Letting out cries of adrenaline ecstasy.

_No one else could fly like this._

It was then that he saw a spot of green and whirled around and came to a halt mid air, his jacket spreading around him like fanning dark wings as he corrected course. The one scope-goggle locked on to the object and told him what he needed to know. "Xiaolin fags, eh? Let 'em come." It was about time to show them what he really was anyway. True, he could just grab the Wu and go, but that was no fun. And they had ruined his flight, his body felt a slight ache at the loss of speed, he would need to get payback for that, too.

He wanted more than anything the childish revenge of outdoing his former bullies. The best revenge was living well? Bullshit. The best revenge was laughing in their faces. He wanted it more than anything.

_Almost_.

He dropped like a stone through the sky and low-hanging clouds, shrouds of clammy moisture rolling across his white skin. He was pierced by the sky's sharp missiles twice as he fell, his uncovered eye shedding tears of protest that, as he closed his eyes against the painful light, fell away from him and mingled with the fog. Just as it seemed he would smash upon the rocks he stopped, hovering above them, alighting on a rocks, his feet spread for balance as if he were rollerblading. He hopped off of and behind the chunk of quartzy granite, waiting.

Like a trapdoor spider, he let the emptiness take over and watched with the blood-tinted vision and sanctimonious silver-fanged smirk of a predator.

* * *

The green blur Jack had seen was indeed the Monks, on their way to retrieve Hive's Wrath from the Palisades. 

"Looks like it's back to the great North American Desert." Kimiko said, checking some things on a wrist PDA her father had made her. Combining technology and Fire-Chi had become her specialty; she may have remained small but her skill and wit far made up for it.

Clay nodded, holding on to Dojo's mane and trying to hold up a napping Omi. The little teen was not taking well to being so far from the ocean... from being so far from moisture in general. "Mm-hm. The Upper Sonoran. I reckon just across these mountains is the Rio Grande gorge, that river goes straight down to Texas. Haven't been this side of the Rio Grande much, actually." He smiled at the thought of his family's trip to the Grand Canyon that had changed his life forever. "Just once, but it's still my kinda' place. Same can't be said for little pard'ner here."

Raimundo spoke up. "He shoulda' taken a nice long shower and got water-logged instead of whining about it. There's a creek here, let's dump him in it." Scoffing he turned around; rather than sitting he had taken to standing on Dojo's head, as if to prove his balance, as if to prove he was made for flying.

But _who_ was he proving it to?

Kimiko shot fire from her eyes, not real fire but a kind of heat that was more an extension of her will than of temperature. "Rai, be nice, the little guy's powers are changing, all of ours are. We're becoming more dependent on our Elemental Chi, you know that."

"Right, and that's why you carry a zippo and matches, pyrophile." He rolled his eyes.

"Hold on there, Raimundo, calm down. Somethin' gotcha' on edge?" The Earth dragon looked from beneath the brim of his hat at Raimundo. Even sitting, he was almost eye-level with the breezy Brazilian.

"I am NOT on edge, alright?" he yelled. Irony would have it that Dojo sneezed at that moment and threw Raimundo off of the precarious perch atop his head. "WH—AAAAUUGH!"

"RAIMUNDO!" Dojo, Kimiko and Clay called out all at once, and Omi jarred awake as well, letting out a yelp of his own. All of this was, however from shock, they all knew Raimundo would be fine. He could stand on the clouds and waited for them, hanging from a crescent of mist for a bit before jumping up and propelling himself back to Dojo's head.

"Whups... Rai, kiddo, I'm so sorry! I didn't mean to--" Dojo offered an apology which Raimundo waved off.

"Not like it was the first time. Shoulda' been paying more attention, my fault." They descended into the clouds.

"Right. Well, Hive's Wrath should be here somewhere. Nasty little Wu, the user gets control of their own personal swarm of six wasps. And let me tell you, that sting chafes like nothing else." They felt a shudder in the wavelike motion of the Dragon, and Omi looked sick.

"It's so dry here... It is as if my bucket has been kicked over the farm!"

"One, you REALLY failed that one, Puddle. Two, you'd kind of have to be DEAD for that to be true." Raimundo rolled his eyes. Even at fourteen Omi hadn't gotten a full grasp on the subtleties of English, one of the few things Raimundo could pride himself in. Omi was barely bilingual, while he had three fluent languages and a slight grasp on Chinese... even if that grasp was more like a flimsy handhold. He only knew as much as he needed for his stronger "magics". Most of what he did depended heavily on instinct and study, the later of which he avoided whenever possible.

Unfortunately for Raimundo, that snide remark earned him a punch from Kimiko's metal-gloved fist.

Hard.

In the arm.

He fell from Dojo again, and this time smacked through the needles of a ponderosa pine tree. After regaining his balance, he roosted catwise on a springy bough and glared at the others as they landed. "So, seriously, what's the deal with Dashi and bugs?" He counted off on his fingers the amount of Shen Gong Wu that involved insects. "Silk Spitter, Juju Flytrap, Moonstone Locust, Ants in the Pants, Silver Manta Ray..."

Clay let out a big laugh that echoed off of the Palisades, which Omi was ogling at in wonder. It echoed off the trees, a wholesome, true sound, the sun sending a water-balloon rather than an arrow as if to emphasize it, a splash of sunshine. "Manta rays aren't bugs, Rai, they're related ta' sharks!"

"Oh who CARES, they LOOK like bugs!" The Wind Monk flailed his arms and vaulted from the branch as if it were a springboard, doing a showy back flip before landing. Meanwhile Omi was playing in the creek, feeling much better and trying to practice his skills by catching baby fish. His cavorting was interrupted as a chipmunk, fat and tourist-fed, hopped onto a nearby log, expecting food.

"AAAIIYAAAH! THIS SQUIRREL HAS THE PAINT OF A _WARRIOR_ ON HIS FACE!" The fact that it had no tail was even more worrisome to Omi. Had the creature lost it in some battle? Had it cut it off itself to make a more efficient fighter out of itself? He jumped away from the crick (that seemed to be chuckling at his musteline phobia) and scrambled through the dust across the tourist parking lot to hide behind Kimiko. This was a bit harder to do than it once was because he now equaled her in size.

"Omi, it's only a chipmunk. They're even less dangerous than squirrels!" Kimiko tried to explain while attempting to detach the younger Asian.

"But if this one is a monk as you said, it could have long-range attacks! We must be careful, I WILL NOT LET YOU DECIEVE ME MONK OF CHIPS!" He shook a fist at the chipmunk, which was long gone, frightened away by Omi's sudden movements.

The Brazilian snickered, and the Texan laughed and tipped his hat down to hide his grin at the li'l Dragon's distress. Then, one visible blue eye squinted to search for the treasure.

"Up... AGH, AAAAGH CHOOOF! ... up there!" Dojo let out a monstrous sneeze that blew dust and debris and disgruntled birds around the area, before pointing a four-clawed hand to a crag. Moments later a flaming arrow of dawn struck the crag, briefly lighting the mock wasps' nest aflame.

"Hive's Wrath. Let's get it and go." He jerked his thumb behind him, towards the dawn-crossbow sunrise of the East. Back to China.

_Entrance time._

_I'm only as good as my entrance._

_My entrance is _damn_ good._

A bloody flash of light not unlike the glint from Hive's Wrath sliced down Rai's face and to his middle, the laser-aimer of what looked like a chrome rifle pointed right at the same-hued heart within Raimundo's chest. Flash, sun, laser, flash; following the light Raimundo saw a pale, gloved hand with a silver talon. Traveling up the talon he saw a heavy, thick black sleeve. Traveling up the sleeve brought his eyes to a neck ringed by a jacket collar and a leather spike-collar, and then a leering face that filled him with hot, acid anger, acrid smoke tainting the winds of his soul.

The markings had changed, not just an eyestripe, the makeup now sported an arrow at the tip, as if mocking Raimundo to look right back down again. "You won't be getting ANYTHING, Windbag." He had even lit up a cigarette to complete his badass image, letting it hang almost carelessly from his lips.

Acrid smoke tainting the winds of the desert.

"JACK SPICER!" Omi pointed and yelled, an act he had yet to grow out of. "You will not attack our friend Raimundo with such a weapon!"

"_No_. Go ahead and shoot me, you fuckin' fag, I'll send that bullet right back between your eyes!" He barked in utter defiance, his accent thicker than usual. The winds picked up, whistling in the crags, reacting to the anger of their kindred.

"Don't you dare shoot Jack!" Clay called up. 'We ain't done nothin' ta hurt ya'--"

"-- YET." Jack sneered, rolling his eye. His left eye, uncovered. Clay's right eye, uncovered. And no one involved realized that both those eyes had terribly poor sight.

_The sheer will in the combating gazes masked all handicaps._

For a moment, Jack was completely taken aback with the deadly earthquake fury in that eye. Blue. Startling blue. He even recoiled.

This had given Kimiko enough time to throw the Star Hanabi and melt the barrel of Jack's rifle shut. Molten metal and flames of victory as red as the pendant. As red as Jack's hair and eyes.

"SHIT. _FUCK_." Those eyes blazed with pain as a single teardrop of superheated metal caught his hand and sunlight mocked him by shining painfully in his unprotected eye. He threw his gun away quickly and stumbled back.

Raimundo was already acting when Jack had stumbled backwards, using a whirlwind to propel him forward like a human missile of lithe metal, the mock-sun around his neck marking his alliance with the holder of the crossbow that was so deadly to that "vampire" Spicer.

_Nothing can beat the sunshine from Rio, not even some tech-freak punk._

Raimundo made a beeline for the hive, chuckling a bit at the mental connection as his tan arm shot down, an extension of the sun, a solar wind claiming its prize.

The furious anarchist had other ideas. His arm sliced down through the dry air, striking at the blood-red treasure like a denim snake, its black nail polish eyes glinting greedily in the arrow-light, his own machine shooting air-ripping momentum behind him.

They both grabbed the ruby at the same time, fingers locked, Jack's silver finger armour talon drawing blood and Raimundo's desperate grip spreading bruises, bluish and greenish-yellow on Jack's hand, even under the glove. When they were about to crash, they both corrected their deadly courses, but would not let go of the prize, locked in an almost deadly grapple. Both young men spiraled upwards into the air, spinning in and out of a sunbeam.

Perfect opposites. Deadly rivals. Childish, boyish hatred. Furious, ageless anger.

"_The mutual gravity of the stars locks them in a spiral."_

Like Yin and Yang they flipped and grappled, both aiming kicks at each-other and both scoring hits that stunned the opponent in a most painful manner, kicks that struck ribs and solar-plexus and drove the breath (but not the fight). Dizzily, they set down at the pinnacle of the Palisades, gasping for breath through pained lungs but neither willing to let go of the prize.

It was Raimundo who recovered first. "S'... been a damn... long time... fuckface. Spicer... I chall... challenge you to... a Xiaolin Showdown."

* * *

_After devouring both of Jack's cellphones, all of the electronic lights, an old gameboy color, a discarded mp3 player, a half-complete Jackbot, some discarded frenchfries and the crushed remains of the alarm clock, he was feeling far from satisfied._

"_Please sir, can I have s'more? SAVE MONEY ON CAR INSURANCE." The flickering of the radio-dial he had assimilated was the only way he had to feed his limited language banks. "This is CARTALK, more hits, MUST GET MORE HITS, more music, WHO NEEDS MUSIC. I have a HALF OFF sale on AWESOME." The babble continued as he processed and re-ordered the words for later use._

_Only city lights from the window lit the face of the abomination, the single red light on the right side of his face glowing in the shadow. The red light flickered as well, showing the simple glyph of a frowning face. :( "Hungry for good eats? It takes a REAL MAN OF GENIUS to find it." he stumbled across a mini DVD player and in a grotesque fashion devoured it, nanotech wires squirming like hungry snakes to pull it in, to crush it and assimilate the technology._

"_Clockwork orange, SPECIAL features, main menu. Today man was arrested for possession of a SHANK." Grabbing the nearest thing, he drove it into the screen of the TV on the shelf above him, and for a moment his nonsensical babbling was pacified by the crackling of electricity, which he mimicked in a crooning fashion. "Sorry I had to put ya' down Old Yeller. NOTHING PERSONAL." He pulled his arm from the TV, torn to shreds by the glass, and watched as the wounds sealed up with clear nanoskin. He could see the wires and diodes beneath, flashing, like a blasphemous heartbeat. For over half an hour, he was mesmerized by this, until his skin was once again pale and opaque._

"_I don't bleed. I wonder if Dad bleeds."_

_Then he laughed, the laugh of someone so clearly yet wrongly enjoying themselves. The laugh of a psychopath, echoing the laugh Jack had let loose before leaving that place, as if he had sucked that laugh out of the air like a demon vacuum and distorted it for his own purposes. "I can do no wrong because I know not what wrong is! MARK TWAIN. CLOCKWORK ORANGE, SPECIAL MENU. I am RUNNING like CLOCKWORK. I AM CLOCKWORK."_

_Just like Jax, the robotic creature had named itself._

_It had no programming to obey anyone._


End file.
